


Holding it together

by Banashee



Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo [8]
Category: Hawkeye (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Angst, Bad Things Happen Bingo, Childhood Trauma, Clint Barton Needs a Hug, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Gen, Hurt Clint Barton, Hurt No Comfort, Memories, Past Rape/Non-con, Prison, Rape/Non-con Elements, Trauma, Undercover Missions, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-21
Updated: 2020-05-21
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:41:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24305329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Banashee/pseuds/Banashee
Summary: Clint is undercover in a prison and is met with very unpleasant encounters, as well as old and new memories he'll have to deal with. Focusing on the job is hard, but he keeps going somehow.*+~Part 8 of my "Bad things happen Bingo".Square: Rape / Non-Con
Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1701046
Comments: 4
Kudos: 32
Collections: Bad Things Happen Bingo





	Holding it together

**Author's Note:**

> Hi,  
> so, because I love a good writing challenge, I'm now taking a part in the Bad Things Happen Bingo.  
> https://badthingshappenbingo.tumblr.com/  
> Please mind the tags!
> 
> I'm cross-posting this to my tumblr, https://banashee.tumblr.com
> 
> This is my eigth square: "Rape/ Non-Con".  
> Please mind the tags - trigger warnings are in the end notes.

****

**Holding it together**

Clint feels like he can’t breathe. 

It takes every single ounce of willpower and self control to keep going, trying to keep it together and get some air back in his lungs. 

Blind panic is rushing through him, and all that he can do right now is retreating back into his headspace, the place he uses to hide all the parts of himself away that make him _him_ and all that remains is a hollow shell that can do what needs to be done. The empty person that can endure the pain - physically, emotionally - until he’ll be safe again. When that is, he doesn’t know.

Right now, he forces himself to be as still as possible while the stinking breath of the older man is hot on his neck, and for once, it is a godsent that he can’t hear very well without his aids, so at least Clint doesn’t have to hear the words that this creep is constantly mumbling as he takes what he wants from him. 

From the moment he stepped into the cell, Clint has known that this situation will end ugly for him, no matter what. One look at this gaunt face with the cold, uncaring eyes and it sent him into a flashback of the circus days - rough hands, the stench of old sweat, unbrushed teeth and alcohol close to him - way too close. Bruises that lingered for weeks, and then the taste - oh god, the taste. He swallows a mouthful of bile.

Clint hasn’t eaten in days, too nauseous at the thought of food. He forces himself to scarf down whatever he can whenever he can, drink as much water as he can because he can’t afford to lose any more strength - he’ll need it to get out of this. 

Staying still, being obedient to avoid getting hurt any more - normally, he’d have tried to fight his way out of this, but he still hasn’t gotten all of the intel he needs. 

There are nods and whispers into the right direction amongst certain circles of people. Clint manages to get close on occasion, during the day while they’re allowed to move outside of the cells. Wearing his hearing aids out there helps - no one thinks that the deaf guy will catch the conversations right beside him, but they underestimate the tech - so all he really needs to do then is to move along and keep his head down, not letting anything on.

It works, and Clint figures, there will be some pretty relevant information he can pass on after this.

There would have been other ways to go about this - the original mission plan that got approved and prepared for, for example. But as it is, this works out too. That is, if you ignore the fact that Clint got completely fucked over by his temporary handler and sent into a situation he shouldn’t even have been in in the first place. 

But now he’s here - sent in with his real name, charged for five murders that he didn’t commit and charged for two clean assassinations that were ordered by SHIELD and the WSC. 

Whatever happens next, however he survives this - Clint will have to run. Again.

As soon as curfew hits and the guards have turned their back, because they really don’t care what happens behind locked doors as long as no one kills each other, the nightmare starts all over again.

Clint never learns the guys name.

He remembers him and his visits in the circus vividly, since he’d been one of the cruel ones - more sadistic than most. And he knows, from the leering stares and foul smiles, that he remembers, too. Their last encounter might have been well over 12 years ago, but the memories are vivid, burned into his brain. 

As bad as those years have been over all for a number of different reasons - some faces, some encounters, Clint will always remember. Painful memories shoved into the back of his mind, trying to ignore them and to move on with his life, until something leaks out and sends him spiralling again.

‘ _Don’t think, don’t think, don’t think_ ’ is a mantra he keeps repeating in the privacy of his own head very frequently those days. 

Clint moves mechanically, walking, eating, showering, whatever it is he needs to do, he does all of it while being only half aware.

The hour out of the cell and amongst other inmates every day, is the only time when he will force himself back in, to catch as much information as he can.

He’s almost done with the job now - _almost_. Just a few more days if he’s lucky. And then what?

Clint throws up into the metal toilet after - well, _after_. There are tears burning in his eyes, but he keeps telling himself it is due to the acid he spits out, his stomach too empty to contain any remains of food. He convinces himself of it, because not doing so would mean that his facade is cracking and he can’t have that happen. Not here, not now.

Just a few days, he keeps telling himself, and by the time he has gotten the last bit of information he needed, he actually has something like a plan - hopefully, he will be able to pursue it.

One more time, he endures the endless pain and humiliation as the piece of shit he’s locked in with gloats and mutters disgusting things into his ears, even though he knows Clint can’t hear him at the time. It is a small mercy, but he’ll take any relief he can get.

Then, the right time has finally come.

Clint is far from his usual form, lost weight and carrying injuries that he couldn’t prevent despite everything. His mind is a mess, and he’s hanging onto sanity with clawing, bloody hands and his bare teeth. As much as he can force himself to get through due to sheer will power, this is getting too much to deal with, even for him. 

Too much old and new trauma that’s mushed up together.

Clint knows he will have to keep a calm head, knows he’ll have to be quick, needs a lot of luck.

But he can do this. He _has_ to, because there is no other way and with that thought, he even manages to fall asleep.

In the morning, the door opens. 

Showtime. 

*+~

Square: **Rape / Non-Con**

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warnings:
> 
> \- Rape and Non-Con, past and current. Not too graphic, but a lot more than just a mention.  
> \- past CSA / child abuse  
> \- past forced underage protitution  
> \- prison violence  
> \- violence in general  
> \- dealing with a traumatic situation  
> \- Nausea / vomiting  
> \- if you would like me to add anything else, please let me know


End file.
